Limited
by EvannaLy
Summary: Mycroft took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. So what, if Mommy and Daddy hated him? It wasn't as if he had ever been their favourite prior to this incident. It wasn't as if he weren't always the spare Holmes. - Angsty OS about Mycroft after Sherrinford and the confrontation with his parents.


**Hi,**

 **this is a small Oneshot from Mycrofts POV and how he is dealing with the aftermath of everything that happened at Sherrinford. It is quite angsty and is actually more hurt than comfort. It seems as if I always end up writing such sad pieces.. :)**

 **As always I have to apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes but English is unfortunately still not my birth language:D**

 **Greetings and a joyful reading,**

 **EvannaLy**

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 **Limited  
**

„ _Idiot boy!"_

„ _He did his best!"_

„ _Then he's very limited!"_

The hurtful words that were spoken during his meeting with his parents and Sherlock came to the surface again and again. Mycroft had buried his head in his hands in a rare outburst of showing weakness and tried, just like Sherlock seemed to do it successfully all the time, to delete, to erase everything from his mind.

After everything that happened at Sherrinford the confrontation with his parents had been too much. He knew beforehand that they would be furious that he hadn't told them about Eurus'existing all those years. And it was reasonable, it was ok. But he had hoped nonetheless he would be able to explain himself, to explain how everything had turned to chaos after the whole Victor incident and how he had been the only one willing to take responsibility. And his uncle had been quite insistent, he didn't really left him a choice.

But it wasn't important that he wanted to spare them pain, that he had tried to hold the family together, that he'd visited Eurus, had organized meetings with the very best psychologists Great Britain had to offer, hoping there could be made some progress, even if it was barely recognizable.

Well, all of that wasn't important anymore. He was not good enough. He had never been good enough. Who had he tried to fool?

„ _Then he's very limited!"_

Mycroft closed his eyes in pain. _Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough._ Sherlock's expression when he had to decide who he should sacrifice. His own provocative attitude, to prevent that his little brother had to kill his best friend, his anchor, to spare him from feeling he had to save Mycroft out of some family obligation. _Idiot boy!_ Sherlock aiming the gun directly to his face. The slowly acceptance of the inevitable, the acceptance of his death, knowing that even after all his efforts, no matter how hard he'd tried to make everything right, he had failed Sherlock, he had failed Eurus, he had failed at everything. _Then he's very limited!_ His chest hurt like it hadn't for years!

Then the horror which took hold of him after he realized what Sherlock was about to do, the stunning fear, the excruciating pain that consumed him as his eyes met those of Sherlock, of his little brother! _You have a great responsibility now. You need to look after your little brother, that's really important. Always think of him first._

Mycroft took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. So what, if Mommy and Daddy hated him? It wasn't as if he had ever been their favourite prior to this incident. It wasn't as if he weren't always the spare Holmes. Not talented enough to compete with Sherlock and Eurus in their exceeding musical art, not independent enough to actually help people with his intellect like Sherlock did, no, of course not, just always the cynical, egoistical and self-centered idiot boy who was too afraid to face the real world and therefore hides himself in his 'secure', minor government job.

He slowly stood up and put his coat on, grabbed his umbrella, his thoughts still lingering on what happened this long and awful day. Without a glance sidewards he walked out of his office and informed Anthea that he would go home and take one day off. He would answer his phone only for an uprising international crisis or if it had something to do with Sherlock. Then he rushed away and towards his already waiting black car by the entrance.

He couldn't remember the drive home afterwards, he just sat rigid in his seat, stared out of the window into the rain, watched London and its citizens like an outsider, still trying to forget. It felt as if he didn't belonged there anymore. On the other hand he couldn't come up with another place or human being he actually belonged to. To his brother? Maybe, but he had friends now which cared deeply for him, he wasn't really needed any longer. To the country and the government? He'd always thought he would be the only one able to do his job, but Great Britain had existed and survived a time without him. Furthermore Anthea had worked long enough for him to at least conduct most of his obligations with knowledge and care. To his parents? He might be their child, but he wasn't their son any longer. Sherlock had been the grown-up all the time anyway, so there was not really a place for him left in that family. That has been made quite clear.

Maybe he should start to think about retirement. He wasn't really sure if he meant his work or his life.

That evening was spent in the same silence as everyday, a single glas of scotch in his hand, sitting near the fireplace. It was the first time it seemed to suffocate him, the first time he didn't find comfort in the absence of people.

It was the first time in years he actually yearned for human contact, both physical and emotional. He even thought about calling Sherlock, but his brother still had to explain everything and to finally confess his feelings to Molly. Additionally his relationship with John was still not mended, they had a lot to talk about and Mycroft didn't want to disrupt them, to intrude their well deserved break from the horrors of the world. The horrors HE weren't able to protect them from.

„ _He did his best!"_

He really did.

„ _Then he's very limited!"_

Maybe Mommy was right after all. Mothers were always right, weren't they?

Mycroft sat in his chair till all flames had burned down and even longer, his eyes gazing blankly into emptyness, while the remaining pieces of his heart were consumed by darkness.

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 **Reviews? :D**


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